


Leather Stitches

by Moon_Rose (Moonrose91)



Series: Wings in Disarray [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Fluff, Gen, Some angst, Some minor bullying and namecalling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 08:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2262660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonrose91/pseuds/Moon_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos is not amused by the fact Aramis disappeared for the night and Athos doesn't live with them. He's less amused by the fact d'Artagnan is hiding in the shadow of the stairway, fixing leather that he shouldn't be fixing, though that lack of amusement is aimed at those who are using the boy (his boy, his little brother), not d'Artagnan himself.</p><p>At least there's free food.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leather Stitches

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much a deleted scene from the last part that didn't _quite_ fit, so I edited it a bit and slipped it into its own thing.
> 
> Commodities is going to be....interesting. And a multiple chapter one again, but till then, I hope this tides everyone over.

Porthos let out a low groan as he stretched, wincing at the pull in his ribs, though he bore it with good grace.

Unlike d’Artagnan, or Athos, he would be healed long before the other two healed, and probably only because he actually ate like a human being (he made food for himself and his gelding priority, then tack, and _then_ weapons) and he had seen how Aramis prodded at the boy, the way the bruises darkened for the first few days of d’Artagnan sleeping in the Garrison.

He hoped that whatever d’Artagnan was doing on his downtime, it would go easy on his injuries, especially his ribs. Otherwise, he would be worse off than before.

With that cheerful thought, Porthos got to his feet, and began to get ready for the day, cursing Athos for not boarding with Aramis and himself, especially as Aramis had spent the night with a mistress.

It took longer than normal, with Aramis helping, to get his uniform on and it was _off_ , but after too long fighting with it, he decided he would bother one of the other Musketeers to help him once he got the Garrison.

Dressed properly enough for the citizens of Paris, Porthos headed for the Garrison.

*~*~*

Porthos grinned as he entered the quiet Garrison, relieved he had picked the correct path to beat breakfast and he didn’t stop himself from waving at a couple of Musketeers already up and training.

He settled at the table closest to the stairway leading up to Treville’s office and was surprised to find d’Artagnan, decked out in his leathers, settled in the shadows of the stairway on a stool.

His wings were in that half open relaxed position he remembered from Luisa, and he was stitching up a leather strap that trailed into a basket that sat between his feet. “Have any trouble with Bonnacieux after we left yesterday?” Porthos asked and d’Artagnan’s head snapped up, wings flaring, the right wing hitting the stairway.

D’Artagnan hissed as his wings snapped back tight against his back and he shook his head. “No,” d’Artagnan answered simply, his wings slowly going back to the exact same half-open position before, Porthos realizing that it was a false relaxation, and probably had been before Porthos startled him as well.

He had to be holding his wings there, in this half-open, I-am-calm-I-am-harmless position, forcing them to stay, and Porthos resisted the urge to frown over that.

It was a technique d’Artagnan shouldn’t _have_ to use, not here in the safety of the Garrison, and decided he would let Aramis eat his own boot later in the asking about it instead of warning him.

It was Aramis’s own fault for spending the night with a mistress instead of coming back home anyway. “Good. Can you help me with something?” Porthos inquired and d’Artagnan looked up.

“Depends on what you need my help with,” d’Artagnan answered, looking at Porthos, hands still on the leather strap.

“I had to get my uniform on myself this morning. Can you come help get it all flat?” Porthos asked and d’Artagnan glanced toward where the practicing Musketeers were, though he couldn’t see them, and nodded.

His wings folded down tight and close as he stood, the wings becoming nearly unnoticeable at his back. It was in that moment that Porthos could understand how they could be bound down against his back, despite the fact that, even when held in a false relaxed fashion, were obviously meant to carry d’Artagnan in flight.

It was a little frightening, to be honest, and Porthos watched as d’Artagnan pointedly did not look over at the Musketeers as he helped Porthos fix his uniform. He undid a few sections, helped it all lie flat and Porthos felt his own wings sag in relief now that they were not being irritated. “You good as well?” Porthos asked, eyeing the jacket he hadn’t even realized allowed for wings.

D’Artagnan nodded and Porthos made him turn around anyway to check, ignoring the tense back and the missing scales, smiling when he saw that it was, in fact, first and foremost, a jacket meant for d’Artagnan’s wings. “Good. Don’t want you to lose anymore scales,” Porthos stated, running a quick check over the spots that were missing scales, gaps obvious (and signs that this had happened before now obvious in the way some were dull with blood red edging while others were practically shining with a blood red edge), though he could see some dull scales already coming over the gaps.

“You heal fast,” he stated, letting d’Artagnan face him once more and the boy laughed softly, wings trying to pull tighter.

“My wings always heal first,” he answered softly and Porthos didn’t ask how d’Artagnan found that out.

The wings told the stories themselves.

It was then that Porthos realized that silence had taken the place of clashing swords and Porthos glared over at the Musketeers who were obviously staring at d’Artagnan’s wings. “Weren’t you all practicing?” Porthos barked and the Musketeers started, one having their uniform back bulge briefly, before they returned to their sword work.

“Have breakfast yet?” Porthos asked easily and d’Artagnan shook his head.

“I left the Bonnacieux residence before the sun was even up. I was tired of being under…a ceiling and I’ve taken some leatherworking commissions. I was going to repair shirts, but I decided I didn’t need to have people refusing to pay me over ‘uneven stitching’ so I figured I should to stick with the leatherwork. Cheaper than what someone with the same skill level would do, but they provide the material, so it works out,” d’Artagnan responded, his wings slowly relaxing from being pulled so tight.

Probably didn’t do his ribs any favors.

“Well, join me, once Serge gets breakfast done,” Porthos stated and d’Artagnan frowned.

“I don’t think I should,” he hedged and Porthos snorted.

“Well, if Serge tells you to eat, obey, or he will be offended. And by offended, I mean that he’ll scowl and snarl and probably pretend you don’t exist for a few days and you don’t want the garrison cook doing that,” Porthos warned.

Before d’Artagnan could open his mouth to protest, Serge walked over with two bowls, his fluffy brown wings puffed out fully. “Eat, both of ya,” he ordered as he put the bowls down on Porthos’s table, one in front of Porthos and one next to Porthos.

D’Artagnan sat next to Porthos obediently to do so.

“Well, does everyone want to break their fast or just these two?” he demanded, once Porthos and d’Artagnan began to eat the thick porridge that, most likely, had salted meat hidden in it, a thick slice of brown bread sitting on top of it, which Porthos always ate around when they got it.

D’Artagnan had carefully pushed the brown bread to the side as he ate, and Porthos resisted the urge to grin at that. It reminded him of him, and pushing aside his favorite parts to get through the least, as a treat for swallowing down free food.

Never knew when one’s next meal was coming from after all.

When their bowls were practically licked clean and the bread eaten, Serge asked if they wanted another ration, to which d’Artagnan nodded. “Never met anyone who liked porridge, besides Porthos,” Serge stated and d’Artagnan merely smiled, accepting the generous serving before he dug back in.

“Neither did I,” Porthos muttered lowly, bending over his own bowl.

“I don’t,” d’Artagnan whispered back and then smiled sharply.

“But when there is food on the table, you don’t say no,” he added and Porthos nodded in agreement.

“Neither do I,” he stated and d’Artagnan smiled a bit less sharply as he focused on the porridge.

*~*~*

After breakfast, d’Artagnan returned to his leatherwork, which turned out to be a strap for a Musketeer’s pauldron. Porthos didn’t question it, just retrieved his saddle and set about polishing it and checking it over for weak spots in the leather that would snap at the wrong time.

They stayed like that even when Aramis came stumbling into the Garrison, panting about almost getting caught by a jealous husband. Porthos listened with half an ear while d’Artagnan tugged lightly at the strap he was fixing.

“And whatever are you doing with a pauldron?” Aramis asked.

“Fixing it. I’m getting five sous for the work,” d’Artagnan answered, fingers running along the seams and Porthos looked up.

His eyes were quick and he snorted. “That’s worth at least fifteen, if not twenty,” Porthos stated.

“I’m not part of a guild, so I won’t charge guild prices,” d’Artagnan retorted, even as Matthieu walked over, his song thrush wings spread as if to make himself important.

“You have my thanks, monsieur,” Matthieu stated, holding his hand out for it and Porthos frowned at the man.

Porthos was still hoping he washed out still, though it was unlikely and d’Artagnan held back the pauldron as he held out his own hand in return. “Five sous first, Monsieur Matthieu,” d’Artagnan warned with a too sharp grin and Matthieu snorted.

“I let you touch my things, demon-spawn. You’re lucky I’m not removing your hands,” Matthieu threatened and d’Artagnan’s wings didn’t even twitch, though Aramis’s wings began to flutter madly while Porthos felt his wings puff up.

Before either could move, however, d’Artagnan’s head shifted to the side and his smile turned dangerous. “And I could tell Treville you are having others do your repair work for you instead of doing it yourself, like you are supposed to Monsieur. In which case, I’ll have to ask for 10 sous, for my silence alone, and five for the work I did,” d’Artagnan answered and Matthieu’s wings seemed to try and spread more than before.

“Or we could tell Treville,” Aramis added far too idly while the muscle in Porthos’s cheek pulsed from holding back violent words.

Matthieu’s wings fluttered briefly before _slamming_ down to fold against his back. He grumbled, but he quickly pulled out the fifteen sous, dropping them in d’Artagnan’s basket before snatching the pauldron out of d’Artagnan’s hand when it was offered and stormed off.

D’Artagnan frowned at the pair of them before he leaned over to pick through the basket for the sous. “I thought he’d haggle more,” he muttered as he made sure every sous got into his purse before he closed it and put it in the basket, pulling out a thick girth next.

He carefully threaded the string onto a pair of needles and began to work on repairing it as Aramis watched, despite Porthos’s soft reminder that he had his own saddle and bridle look over. “You’re quite good at that,” Aramis stated and d’Artagnan’s wings twitched in what could be the equivalent of a shrug.

“I grew up on a farm, I had to be,” d’Artagnan answered as he tied off the end, drawing out his knife to cut the string free near the knot.

He eyed it far more critically than he had the pauldron, fingers tugging at sections before he nodded slightly and set it back into the basket. The actual _creation_ of a satchel followed, d’Artagnan’s fingers sure and quick as he worked, his wings slowly relaxing, truly relaxing.

Aramis watched the way d’Artagnan’s wings stretched out, one brushing the stairway, twitching only when people walked up it. Aramis smiled a bit at the sight before he fetched his own saddle and bridle to work on as they neared the midday meal, the Garrison filling with people.

D’Artagnan seemed to make himself smaller when Athos joined them just as Serge came out with a midday meal.

“Monsieur Serge?” d’Artagnan called as he slowly stood up, ignoring the way eyes swiveled to him, holding the finished satchel. It was of good quality and Serge raised an eyebrow as d’Artagnan held it out to him, wings trembling slightly as Serge gently took it.

D’Artagnan’s wings were folded small again, pressed against his back, almost as if bound again, and Serge smiled at him, patting d’Artagnan’s shoulder carefully. “It is just Serge, lad, and this...this is nice, thank yeh. Well, eat up. Yer attached to the Garrison now, which means you get meals like the rest of the lads,” Serge responded and limped off, while d’Artagnan’s wings practically sagged in what could be called relief.

“Well?” Athos called and d’Artagnan quickly took his place next to Porthos, Athos’s wings stretching briefly before they fluffed to settle against Athos’s back.

“Straps bothering you again?” Aramis asked lightly and Porthos chuckled, even as he pushed a bowl of thick stew towards d’Artagnan.

Athos glared at Aramis, who merely laughed as he stood, easily fixing Athos’s uniform, his dragonfly wings fluttering in the sun as chatter filled the Garrison’s courtyard.

No one said anything when Porthos’s wing stretched up and over d’Artagnan when d’Artagnan began to poke at his stew instead of eating it and the tension released from him as he continued to eat his way through the bowl as the three Inseparables began to discuss healing rotation. “In other words; boredom,” Aramis stated.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Athos warned before he downed a whole glass of wine, easily pouring himself another as he leaned forward to brace himself against the table, though he still wasn’t touching his bowl of stew.

“Oh, well…it can’t happen twice in a row, can it?” Aramis asked, hissing in pain when Athos reached up and smacked him upside the head while Porthos groaned, shifting his wing slightly when d’Artagnan hesitantly scooted closer to encourage the movement.

“What’s wrong?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Every time Aramis says something that could possibly tempt Fate, Fate shows her displeasure,” Athos stated.

“We think he left her in the middle of the night,” Porthos offered and d’Artagnan let out a snort, almost laughing, his wings brushing, briefly, against the underside of Porthos’s wing before folding against his back to avoid touch while Aramis grumbled about turning their youngest against him.

Porthos laughed at that, hitting the table with the palm of his hand as Athos smiled behind his glass of wine before drinking it all down in one swallow.


End file.
